Oh yes... there was one other Muslim I met once. She was a mother at the Catholic primary school I sent all five of my kids to.

She had about six kids but one of her daughters was in my nine year old son, Hagar’s class.

I can’t remember the little girl’s name because it was eleven years ago. Hagar’s teacher had asked me to direct a play for the class entry in the local Eisteddfod. I decided to cast the little Muslim girl in the lead role of our dramatic portrayal of the antics of thirteenth century Sherwood Forest.

She was entrancing… a natural, an exuberant charismatic talent; far more comfortable on stage than any other student in the class, including my son Hagar.

“Just make sure she wears long pants,” whispered Mr Cook the teacher. “It’s to do with her religion.”

That was cool. She was playing Robin Hood. Robin Hood could wear long pants.

I sat beside the Muslim girl’s mother a few months later at a school basketball day. Hagar, although pretty crap as an actor, was a brilliant basketball player. He’d been allocated a key supervising role for the day and I watched him scooting around the court, passing the ball to hopeless, gangly newbies. He encouraged them, never criticising or condemning the terrible lack of skill and physical dexterity going on around him.

“I love Hagar,” commented the Muslim mum beside me dressed in her strange Hajib; strange to me as an ignorant North Queenslander anyway.

I turned in surprise.

“He has such cute eyes,” she continued. “I tell him he has cute eyes all the time when I see him after school and he blushes,” she laughed.

We sat there for the rest of the game gushing to each other how gorgeous we thought each other’s kids were.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

“I don’t suppose you have a spare USB stick in your bag do you?” husband, Scotto asked me when we were sitting in the downstairs lounge room watching the news.

“Have you been looking through my bag?” I gestured to the bag on the floor beside me.

“No,” he replied defensively. “I just thought you might have a USB stick in there.”

“As a matter of fact I do have a brand new USB stick in my bag but I need it,” I sniped. “How did you know it was there?”

“I didn’t! I just thought you might have one.”

Yeah right! I knew what he was up to. He just didn’t want to climb the stairs to the bedroom to get his own stupid USB. He’d seen the brand new, unused one in my bag when he was snooping around pretending to look for lozenges.

Lazy, bloody bugger.

“You can use mine if you want,” I begrudgingly agreed. “But it’s still in the packet so you’ll have to buy me a brand new one if you do.”

He sighed theatrically.

“It’s okay,” he relented. “I’ll go upstairs and get one of mine.”

Scotto was half way up the stairs when I shouted, “Can you bring down my reading glasses while you’re up there please?”

It’s a constant source of competitiveness in our house as to who has to go up and down the stairs to retrieve urgent items.

But there are worse things about living in a two storey house than the constant effort of heaving ourselves up and down eighteen steps every day to retrieve a fudging tissue.

There’s the secrecy, the murky unknown of what’s actually going on in the house on the next level.

There we were sitting on the couch; Scotto back from his epic USB pilgrimage, thinking we were alone in the house when who should walk downstairs but nineteen year old son, Padraic. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jocks and as pale as a White Walker.

“Have you been here all day?” I spluttered, spilling my Chardonnay all over the fox terrier who at the time was fixated on my face, begging for her daily exercise.

Please... throw it Mum?

Apparently Padraic had been here all day; ensconced in his day time coffin, sleeping off his horrific hangover, his car abandoned at the scene of the crime.

Meanwhile Scotto and I had thought we’d had the house to ourselves all day.

We might have unknowingly frolicked naked in the lounge room, held an African dance party in the front room, gone skinny dipping in the pool… unaware of Padraic’s languishing presence in one of the upstairs’ bedrooms.

It made me wonder who else might be living here without our knowledge...

Saturday, September 27, 2014

“What the hell is that ad about?” I griped every time the Ergon Energy telly commercial with the llama came on last night.

“Maybe the llama is supposed to be like the grim reaper or something,” mumbled Scotto, annoyed with my endless, picky complaints.

“But that’s just bloody stupid. Why would they use a llama for fudge’s sake?”

“No idea, Pinky” he sighed with an unnecessary element of irritation in his tone.

Not wanting to ruin Scotto’s Friday evening, I decided to ask my trusty and patient friend, Googlishis for an answer and you won’t believe it but Scotto was correct.

The Brisbane advertising company who concocted the ad apparently decided to use a llama dressed up as the Grim Reaper to frighten people into being more careful when working near electricity in the house.

Do you really think writing blog posts about talking plants are a productive use of your time?

Scotto and I have a deal where we give each other a budget of two hundred bucks to spend on our respective birthday presents.

“It’s two days until your birthday Pinks, so you’d better get cracking and tell me what you want!” he shouted from the shower this morning as I lay in my bed, sipping my coffee with eyes shut willing them to open just a tiny slit so I could find my mouth.

So I spent today trolling around the shopping centres until, overwhelmed with agoraphobia, I scuttled back to Golden Boy and hightailed it back to my insidious nest where I felt safe from all those prying eyes. Yeah... I'm weird like that about shopping centres.

I couldn't find a thing I wanted. The truth is… I don’t need or want anything.

When I’m on my deathbed I’m not going to be longing for trinkets and jewels. I have plenty of them… and what use are they anyway?

I’m not going to be worried about what I wore to a particular occasion back in 2014 so I’m not interested in shoes and clothes. They perform a perfunctory and superficial role in my life.

I’m not going to regret the fact I didn’t have that crystal lamp, Japanese dinner set, Thermomix (whatever the hell that is), or a facial from a disinterested beautician named Mystique who tells me in great detail about her boyfriend who’s just won a title in the local body building championships.

What I really want for my birthday is that my kids remember my day this year without me having to leave post it notes on the fridge.

I mean… they are all adults now so they should remember shouldn't they? Not like last year when not one remembered until I sent them a pissed off text message at ten o'clock in the evening.

And what I will really want on my death bed is for my five children to be there holding my hand. And Scotto of course. And more than anything, my poopies.

Monday, September 22, 2014

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.

There is a theory that argues if you put one hundred monkeys in front of one hundred typewriters for one hundred years they would eventually write a Shakespearean sonnet.

Perhaps that theory needs to be revised...

This happened to Scotto and I yesterday and is an entirely factual story I promise.

Yesterday began innocently enough when Scotto mentioned he’d like to do some sunset photography for his blog. I suggested we go down to the beach and have a Sunday drink at one of the restaurant/bars on the Strand where the sunset might be spectacular.

It’s not that I’m incapable of doing anything which doesn’t involve alcohol but more that it seemed like a nice idea... and I’m on school holidays after all.

A Sunday drive to the beach was immediately instigated; we found a rock star parking spot and decided to call in to the C Bar which has romantic history for us as that’s where we had our first dinner out together.

Scotto lugged his camera over his shoulder Paparazzi style and we found a table facing West so he could set up his equipment.

“We charge extra for photos!” quipped the jolly, little waiter when he saw the monstrous tripod and lens.

We ordered our drinks and sat waiting for the solar system to do its thing.

“That’s weird,” frowned Scotto, picking up his phone and squinting at it. “My phone has just typed out a message by itself!”

He reset it and placed it back on the table.

“It happened again!” he said a few seconds later. “Look! It’s the frond from the plant moving around my touch screen.”

Plant typing a text message!

I leaned over and watched it for a while.

“I think the plant is trying to communicate with us Scotto!” I squealed. “What’s it saying?”

We scanned the text message.

'An NBC CNN NBC check lol KiiiiiiL'

“Shite!” I gasped. "It’s telling us to watch the news! It just typed KILL!"

The plant kept merrily typing. It was mainly jibberish but every few lines there’d be a couple of distinct words.

Scotto texted me what the plant wrote so I could document it!

“Ask Phil?” I shrieked, attracting attention from the other diners. “Who the fudge is Phil? Maybe the plant is channelling the spirit of Prince Phillip… no he’s still alive.” I scanned my brain for dead Philips. “Philip Seymour Hoffman! That’s who it probably is!”

Thursday, September 18, 2014

And as most of you know that means I must bare my soul by answering a set of five interrogative questions...

So here goes.

1. Why did you start blogging?

Basically it was because I thought I was a funny little thing. Mind you, no-one had ever told me I was funny.

My kids certainly don’t think I’m in the least bit amusing. My students roll their eyes and make gagging motions at my jokes. Scotto, giggles at everything so he can’t be trusted. My colleagues think I’m probably one of the most annoying people on Earth and my dogs NEVER laugh at my witty barbs at their expense.

But I think I’m funny and as one of my favourite philosophers said,

If you believe in yourself anything is possible: Miley Cyrus.

2. If your wardrobe could talk what would it say about you and tell us about your favourite or most worn item?

I have a pair of shorts. They’re elastic-waisted and balloon around my hips in a most unalluring manner (I made up that word, unalluring but you know what I mean). Sometimes I wear them for three months at a time without washing them but I always have clean undies on.

I only put them on after work (the same time as I’m ripping off my bra in a contortionist feat which would make Houdini cower behind his Mum’s skirts) so if you add up the actual time I’m wearing them between washes it’s probably only two months.

One and a half tops...

My wardrobe would probably say to me...

“Pinky, honey, there are some folks here who’ve long outstayed their welcome. The Eighties called and want their stone wash leather jacket back. They also want those lace up boots which can no longer accommodate Paula, the bunion on your right foot.”

3. What’s on your Worth Casing list?

(a) Which way (up or down??) to scroll from Channel 7 to Channel 10 on the remote control without having to go through SBS, ABC, WIN, ABC2, ABC3, SBS2, SBS3, ONE, TVSN, ELEVEN, ASPIRE, 7two, 7mate, TV4ME, GEM…

(b) How I can put things away in my bedside table drawer so that next time I try to open the bloody thing it won’t only open to one centimetre due to an infuriating obstruction. It forces me to blindly ferret around for thirty minutes in order to investigate what’s jamming the bloody thing. This event inconveniently occurs whenever I urgently need to find a pen to write down a rare and brilliant blog post idea which fleetingly passes through my grey matter at the speed of light and will invariably be gone by the time I get the bloody drawer open which is why I have to write about trivial stuff like this.

(c) The exact time I need to pull out of my driveway in the morning so I can catch the fifteen 'synchronised' green traffic lights between my house and work. I've been doing it for nine years now and am still to hit pay dirt.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

“I’m all stocked up, Mrs Poinker,” said my nine year old student, Isolde, grinning broadly and holding up a wad of tissues in my face. I was relieved because Isolde tends to suffer massive nose bleeds when she’s nervous.

It was D day. After weeks of rehearsals we were finally off to perform our Year Four play at the local Eisteddfod.

Naturally, Darius had forgotten his garish Hawaiian shirt costume and we had to send someone off to do a mad raid of the After School dress up box. I could have strangled him with my bare hands but shoved a fistful of Nicorettes in my gob instead and chewed maniacally whilst staring at him with the glare of Sauron of Mordor in my eyes.

The bus was waiting in the hot sun as my troops skipped out; glittery wigs, sequins and enough cellophane streamers to shoot the sequel to "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" trailed behind us. The kids were rowdy and exuberant; the smell of greasepaint affecting their mental stability.

Not only that, their teacher was struck dumb with Laryngitis and unable to govern the tiny but terrifying natives of Lilliput with any modicum of efficiency.

We passed my colleague and friend O’Reilly, returning with his class from their Choral Speaking performance and victoriously wielding a trophy around his head.

Why don’t I enter the Choral Speaking instead? I thought. It’s so much less fraught with danger… and then I remembered why… A most traumatic experience!

I sat alone on the bus trip there, turning around in my seat every now and again to mime slashing my throat at the boys who were raucously singing football songs in the back seat.

Bus drivers of children are a touchy lot. I didn’t want him to throw a tanty and turn the bus around because of obstreperous behaviour.

“Ulysses is crying, Mrs Poinker!” declared little Cressida as we passed one of my favourite watering holes on the road. Oh, how I wished I was inside its chilled confines sipping on a holiday wine.

I decided to ignore Ulysses’ tears. If I was going to be mute I may as well play deaf as well.

Ulysses can be a bit of a drama queen and cries at the drop of a hat and he was probably just overwhelmed with titillated anticipation. I was correct and didn’t hear another peep about it.

As we drove past the new inflatable waterpark little Troilus screamed out at the top of his lungs, “If we win today will you take us all to the waterpark, Mrs Poinker?”

I smiled wanly and may have imperceptibly nodded.

A massive cheer erupted. I looked nervously over at the bus driver’s ears which were bright red and twitching in an unnatural way and motioned for an immediate shush.

As the bus pulled up at the Civic Theatre I spotted Kyles the music teacher, waiting on the footpath for us. “Thank the fudge for that,” I thought. She looked like an angel descended from a luminescent celestial body… a fudging, beautiful miracle.

Kyles was there to help me with my class and I’d designated the Munchkins as her personal responsibility. The Munchkins’ troupe was comprised of the… er… most ‘dynamic’ of my boys.

“Are you sure I should have the Munchkins?” she coughed, “Wouldn’t it be better for me to have the Bananas?”

“NO! You stand on the Munchkins side of the stage and I’ll control the Slaves and Bananas and Hunchback,” I insisted in a wheezing but desperate rasp.

Before we knew it they were on stage. They were vibrant, entrancing and very sparkly under the lights. I knew they’d excelled themselves because, as is my custom, I burst into tears as I pressed the button to start the finale music.

I only burst into tears when I get a peculiar feeling we’ve hit a special home run.

Our first place trophy!

Anyway… guess who is on a dodgy promise to take twenty-six kids to the inflatable waterpark?

So not happening.

Thank you to Kym and Tanya for making props and for your brilliant moral support.

I’ve never had Laryngitis before which is strange because I tend to use my voice a lot and if you’re going to get sick usually the thing you use the most is the first to go.

I spent today in bed, writing my last will and testament and pondering the meaning of my melancholic life whilst attempting to watch the midday movie, unable to yell critical abuse at the terrible actors and incapacitated to the point where the dogs took advantage of my inability to shout at them to shut the hell up with their incessant barking.

Sometimes I hate my dogs.

But then it struck me… what if my dulcet tones never return? What if I remain a mute? A voiceless old woman, never again able to work as a teacher, sing happy birthday to my grandchildren, perform Karaoke or order McDonalds at the drive through?

I’d never be able to chatter inanely to husband, Scotto, at the climax of the Fast and Furious movie he’s watching, or answer the checkout chick at Coles when she asks me how I’m going today.

I’d have to carry signs with me everywhere saying, “Good Thanks!” or “Great! How are you?”

Scotto 'says' my dearth of vocal tone is cute. He keeps making me do Marge Simpson and Cookie Monster quotes and then he laughs and laughs and laughs.

But I think he might be taking advantage of his brief reprieve from the continual whine in his ear day in day out. He’s going to the movies tomorrow night to see Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with our mate O’Reilly because he reckons I need to spend more time alone to rest my vocal cords.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

“What’s wrong with you, woman?” I thought when I noticed my toothbrush lying on the floor of the shower recess in our ensuite this morning.

I picked it up gingerly. How did the naughty little bugger end up there? I was already late for work and couldn’t be bothered with social niceties so quickly examined it for cockroach poo. There didn’t seem to be anything obvious concealed in the nylon fibres… still… you can never be too sure.

I washed it under the hot water tap in the bathroom sink whilst staring at my crazy-eyed reflection in the mirror. The Pierrot clown who hadn’t removed its makeup properly… the scared, weird, little guy look.

Hot water kills most germs, I thought.

Then I glanced back at the shower recess. The mould growing on the walls would give a grade fiver’s lunch box a run for its money. What if the mould had leapt across the ravine and attached its invisible spores to my toothbrush. Is mould dangerous?

I was feeling devilish, courageous… so I jumped in the shower, liberally squirting toothpaste all over the suspect toothbrush.

Literally two seconds after the questionable toothbrush entered my ruby lips did I speculate that all was not as it seemed. The brush did not seem to take up as much room in my mouth as it usually did. Its bristles were of a more malleable, more lenient texture than that of their usual torturous, stabby-in-the-gums quality.

Alarm bells rang.

Could it be this WAS NOT MY TOOTHBRUSH?

I wiped away the steam from the shower glass door and peered through to spy Scotto’s huge toothbrush standing out, loud, proud and spectacularly purple in its special little holder; all alone in its glory.

But it still felt weird. Something about the brush was alien and deep in my heart I knew I was being an ostrich. This was NOT my toothbrush. But whose could it possibly be?

I must be imagining things, I reassured myself. There are only two of us who use this bathroom, it can only be mine.

I finished my shower, taking extra time to swish my Listerine around before spitting it out on the shower floor.

Then it happened.

As I emerged from the shower recess I suddenly spotted it on the bathroom counter.

It was my toothbrush… hiding in plain sight beside the SPF 30+.

My very own cheeky, fire engine red toothbrush.

So… what the freakin hell toothbrush did I just use???

An unspeakable thought crept into my head and I shuddered in revulsion.

I keep an old toothbrush on the floor of the shower to occasionally scrub out the mildew from the tile grouting. I hadn’t seen it for a while. Perhaps it had deliberately concealed itself behind the plethora of empty shampoo and conditioner bottles.

That couldn’t be the toothbrush I so carelessly picked up, could it?

COULD IT???

It’s been eleven hours since the harrowing event.

There are still no symptoms of fungus rot invading my system.

Fingers crossed you hear from me tomorrow.

If not take this as a warning: inanimate objects aren’t always what they appear to be. Sometimes they can be malevolent. There have been cases of demons attaching themselves to inanimate objects.

Monday, September 8, 2014

One of my favourite bloggers is little Hugzy (who is much funnier and cleverer than I), from Hugzilla Blog...

and she nominated me for a Liebster award which means I have to answer some questions and pass on the honour... so here goes! I hope it's not too boring.

What was your favourite subject at school?

How big a moll Linda Fink was after she kissed Rodney Dawson for two hours and let him put his hand up her top at the party the previous Saturday night. Also how she came to school with a love bite on her neck which she tried to hide with a bandaid but we all knew it was there.

How easily do you wake up when your alarm goes off?

I usually wake up an hour and a half after it goes off while I’m driving to work at 100kms an hour on the motorway. Sometimes I get a bit of a fright when this happens.

You could never miss a single episode of which TV show?

Why Better Homes and Gardens of course on Friday nights, because Scotto and I play a drinking game where we skull a wine every time Dr Harry tells someone their pet is just bored and that's why it's humping/gnawing on the window sills/pooing on the bed every day and merely needs something to chew on while its owners are out.

What’s your go-to dish when you’re asked to bring a plate? Definitely Coles Smart Buy Paper Plates as they’re very strong, can be used later on in the night to Frisbee at your husband’s head to get his attention when your wine glass is empty, plus your thieving friends won’t ‘forget’ to return them and stash them in their Tupperware drawer.

If you could be a character from a favourite book from your childhood, who would you be?

Pippy Longstocking because she got to live alone without sucky parents, wash the floors by chucking buckets of water all over the place and skating around with mops on her feet and ride a horse to school.

You’re exploring a scenic beachside village. Would you prefer to do it on foot or by bike?

A bike… but one that someone else was peddling whilst I sat in the back of a rickshaw supping on a cocktail and shouting out orders to the minions.

The reality TV show that you would absolutely blitz, would be what?

The X Factor because until you’ve heard my rendition of “I Will Survive” with an accompanying interpretive dance you’ve never seen raw talent in its supreme state.

Do you prefer your Summer or Winter wardrobe?

Living in North Queensland there’s really no difference. In Winter I occasionally let the hair grow on my legs for a bit of extra warmth and wear socks with my rubber thongs when I go outdoors.

I’m a tad partial to Rivendell, Narnia or possibly Hogwarts but if we’re being realistic… probably the Maldives…

Now, who to nominate... You know, I think pretty much everyone has won a Liebster award already so I'm posing the questions to all of you. Please choose a question and answer in the comments or on Facey :) Can't wait to hear your answers!

Sunday, September 7, 2014

I was born and bred in Townsville; sometimes maliciously referred to as Brownsville, or even worse, Bogansville.

There’ve been many changes to Townsville over the last fifty years. (Did I just say fifty??)

When I was a kid, once a week my parents would take us for an evening drive to buy an icecream from the Ozone Cafe on the Strand and we’d sit and watch the fountain change colours. “Oh look! It’s red! Now it’s blue! Now it’s yellow! It’s red again!”

That was about the most exciting after dark entertainment for kids back then.

The only other evening recreational activities in 1960-70’s Townsville were either a James Bond movie at one of two drive-ins or window shopping in the main street in our pyjamas whilst being serenaded by a filthy plague of pigeons nesting in Biblical proportions in the shopfront eaves.

The Ozone Café, fountain and pigeons still exist in Townsville today.

But despite many changes to my home city of late some other things have also managed to survive the halcyon years including the intense rivalry between Townsville and its nemesis, Cairns.

I don’t know how many emails I’ve sent off to the television breakfast show, Sunrise, informing them that Cairns is not the capital city of North Queensland as evidenced by their national weather map.

Why do you have stupid Cairns on your map and not Townsville? How am I supposed to know what the weather is like today? Cairns is roughly 1700 kilometres from Brisbane. Don’t you think people need to know what the weather is like in between?

Besides, you’re filling the Cairns-ite’s heads with delusions of grandeur. They’re already up themselves and think they’re better than us even though the Cairn’s city esplanade is pretty much made up of mudflats whereas Townsville’s Strand esplanade is a glorious paradise.

Yours sincerely,

Pinky Smith.

They never answer my emails. but seriously… these are the real reasons I think Townsville is the jewel of North Queensland far surpassing muggy Cairns and its steamy mangroves.

We don’t have an embarrassingly named suburb called “Yorkey’s Knob”… Cairns does.

People don’t confuse Townsville with a French city that hosts a fancy pants film festival every year.

People generally wear shoes in Townsville when they go to a wedding (rubber thongs at the very least).

In Cairns the weddings are BYOFUC... (Bring your own fold up chair).

In Cairns, when people are pulled over by the cops for having five unrestrained kids in the back of their Nissan Nevara tray-back they say they didn’t know there were any kids there. In other words, they lie through their tooth.

In Townsville we don’t make our letterboxes out of old mufflers, coffee tables out of XXXX beer cartons or ashtrays out of beetroot cans.

In Townsville we don’t need a torch, mosquito spray and a newspaper when we go to the toilet at night.

In downtown Cairns they don’t have pigeons in the shopfront eaves because the worm-ridden, grey birds are a highly sought after culinary delicacy (along with the Flying Fox).

In Cairns, they serve beer to everyone in the Centrelink queue because the line extends two kilometres in the hot sun.

In Cairns they have custody hearings in court over bull mastiffs and Holden Utes with Chevy badges.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Whilst I’m not the nail-biting, uptight, perfectionist, 'A' type personality, I am a bit of a negative thinker.

I tend to spend a lot of time having lucid visions about an impending disaster of the Final Destination genre magnitude.

Have you ever seen those Final Destination movies?

There’ll be a guy running along with a pair of scissors (which we all know you should avoid doing) when he suddenly slips on a banana. The scissors fly up into the air slicing the cord suspending the ceiling fan. The rapidly rotating ceiling fan clatters down on a platter of knives (which were perhaps used to cut up the banana) and one of the knives flies up, stabbing the guy in the eye right through to his brain and he dies a horrible, lingering death...

I have those sort of scenarios going through my head every day. For example; a young, hot woman (Pinky) is driving along the highway beside a massive truck which happens to be transporting a fleet of brand new primary-coloured Hyundai Velosters to a car dealership. A kangaroo unexpectedly hops out in front of the truck which sharply swerves because the truckie is a vegetarian animal lover and doesn’t want to hurt a small furry marsupial. He crashes into a light pole which violently splits in half and spears into the cabling holding the cars on to the truck. The cars cascade off the truck at great speed and hurtle straight towards my (the hot woman’s) gloomy face in the windscreen, beheading her in an instant...

Despite this somewhat pessimistic and catastrophist view of life I still tend to live on the edge. I have a terrible habit of leaving everything until the last minute. Perhaps I’m subconsciously addicted to the rush of adrenaline and gnawing panic or something… who knows? However, in the interests of my cardio-pulmonary system I’ve decided to reform… a bit.

This time last year I was in a state of alarm because my class of nine year olds were about to perform a play in our local Eisteddfod and at the eleventh hour I still hadn’t procured the two vital sea monster costumes we needed for our pirate extravaganza.

Scotto modelling the sea monster costume!

It’s still two weeks away until this year’s class of young thespians grace the stage with their gala performance of ‘Mergatroid’s Adventures in Bananaland’ and I’m happy to inform you I’m already on top of the costumes.

I have six bananas, six slaves, eight munchkins, a witch, a hunchback and two narrators to outfit, which sounds daunting I admit.

The slaves were easy; the kids could wear some raggedy old clothes. The munchkins could wear black jeans, t-shirts and silly wigs and I already had a witch and old monk costume (as you do)… but the bananas were throwing me a curve ball.

How was I going to be creative, innovative and inspired by such a simple fruit? It addled my tiny brain and kept me awake, tossing and turning in a lather of sweat every night for weeks.

Until, that is… I had one of my best Pinky revelations.

Bananas look a hell of a lot like sea monsters don’t you think?

Students modelling banana costumes!

On another note my husband Scotto, has launched a brand new photography blog (it's not a competition he keeps reminding me) and it would be lovely of you to pay him a visit! Scott Weaver Photography (he's using his maiden name!)

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

“Did you make time to go to the doctor today?” I pestered Scotto as soon as he walked in the door after work.

In his typically injury-prone style he’d managed to pop his knee when we were away last weekend. As well as that he had a worrying painful lump on his upper chest rib.

I don’t know about you but I don’t like anyone finding a lump anywhere. Nineteen year old son Padraic, showed me a grape-sized lump he had in the side of his stomach a few months ago and I’d booked a medical appointment for him faster than you could say Munchausen by Proxy. It wound up being a lipoma, which is a benign tumour composed of adipose tissue… in other words, body fat.

I suddenly wondered if that was what was currently residing around my midriff. A gigantic lipoma!

It would explain a lot anyway.

Scotto wasn’t concerned at all and blamed the lump on a possible injury from erecting a gazebo for our dogs a few days earlier.

Yes. We bought our dogs a gazebo from Bunnings.

“So what did the doctor say?” I badgered Scotto.

“Oh… I may have torn a ligament in my knee. I’ll see how it goes over the next fortnight.”

“But what about the lump on your chest?” I harangued, concerned for my husband’s well-being.

“She just thinks it’s a haematoma from a hard bump,” he shrugged.

My concern for his lump was swiftly diverted.

“She? Your doctor was a she?” I queried, wondering what had happened to the usual old fart he went to.

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